Hit the road, Jack...

So the travellers have returned.

It's amazing what forty eight hours in the Wobble Box can achieve.  At the end of last week, the husband and I had struggled through a rather trying week involving cancelled plans and something which somebody saw on his new building site, which may or may not have resembled something like a bat.  BatGate brought the husband to a new low, and he was overjoyed to be hitting the open road on Friday without a Bat Lady in sight.

We weren't going far. These weekend jollies have a pre-determined limit of two hours' drive away, so that we're not stuck on some motorway of another with yours truly asking 'are we nearly there yet?' We had settled on a site in the Cotswolds and having eaten only half of our allotted travel sweeties we pulled into the site at around 5.00.  This is a first, as I've usually finished mine before we reach the A34.

Half an hour later, we had walked into town, fallen into the nearest pub, parked the dogs under the table and ordered drinks and food.  Since Reg has been 'done' we don't seem to have as many stand offs as we used to.  There was a bit of an unfortunate business with a Newfoundland who seemed to have his eye (and something else) on poor old Reg but with the help of a large umbrella, two waiters and a wooden chair, we managed to get Reg to the comparative safety of the Wobble Box with his virtue intact.

We always like to take the dogs on a huge adventure when we go away.  After all, it's their holiday as much as ours, and on Saturday we decided to walk to a nearby arboretum. I have learned as we go to more and more campsites, that 'nearby' can mean many things.  It could mean that an easy footpath is just but a stone's throw from the shower block (New Forest) or it could mean that several maps, a compass and a bus timetable are necessary (Perranporth).  Saturday's walk was fairly straightforward apparently.  Two miles' walk across fields where the dogs could run off lead, and then a small walk to the arboretum.

Well the fields were muddy.  I wasn't so worried about the state of the husband and me, but the dogs were another matter.  By the time we had done the arboretum and got back to the pub nearest to the campsite (a seven mile round trip...I'll give them 'nearby'), they were plastered.  Mind you, two hours in, so were we and I didn't give a a moment's thought to the muddy pups when we got back into the caravan.  The husband wombled down to the shower block for a quick once over, and I settled down with my book and a cup of tea.

The husband managed to stay awake for a whole seven minutes after he returned from the shower block, and at 6.00, blaming the dirty dogs for his gritty sofa, he headed off to bed, muttering something about drinking in the afternoon.

I managed another two hours which I thought quite impressive considering the size of fish and chips I'd eaten (put it this way, there was no room on the plate for the fish and the chips, so the cod had been reverently laid on top like a fishy bunk bed). 

The husband slept for a whole fourteen hours.  

I didn't, preferring instead to stay awake listening to the husband snoring and the dogs trying to rid themselves of their temporary muddy overcoat.

You see.  Caravanning ain't all glamour, but we've both returned feeling brand new.

Oh, and just a little gritty...




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